The eight thousand, four hundred, seventy seven days we spent sleeping
by ffanon
Summary: Her eyes grew wide at the brush of lips against her neck, a puff of air falling and fading from her lips, for she never thought, such words could be spoken, only by a touch, when they could all along, she just never had the right translator.


"Thank you." She tells him at the top of the stairs.

He pauses, and half-turns, sending a careful glance in her direction; before casting his gaze downwards, in the direction of the ill lit floor below. His mouth parts after a moment, but the words don't come until a few seconds later.

"Of course," They look a bit mangled as they scrape past his lips – but he works it out in the long run; the curve of his mouth closing with a flourish, making it look as though those were the words he always ment to say. In the following silence his gaze skits upwards and he turns towards her more so; a gentle smile crawling up the edges of his lips; his eyes are soft in nearly, barren of light, hall. He speaks again before the silence can truly stretch out and finally begin to relax. "Glad I could help." His smile vanishes, and is completely gone as he speaks; only to be returned to its dull echoed position on his face when his lips are pressed together.

She gives a small, brisk nod, her eyes flicking to the door knob as her hand drops away from it, and then back to him; blinking at the change of light – her vision clinging to the visible features off him, fending off the shadows lapping at most of his form, swallowing the valleys of the folds in his shirt. In favor of clinging to the yellow lining that coasts along his frame and blossoms along his features, spreading out over his cheeks and giving a defined edge to the whites of his eyes, whilst turning his green-blue eyes to a murky diluted ember.

That's when it becomes clear.

Light blossoms and hovers, drifting up and down along his form – glowing and shifting, adjusting with the TV screen as it changes, bouncing from commercial to commercial.

It always was, in the back of her mind; clear and sharp but upfront, nothing more than a diluted whisper. Now it's a voice that's ringing strongly in her ears, real enough that she can almost feel the barest touch of warm breathe on the side of her head.

Her hand drifts from the door knob, brushing against the crisp, crackling clean white paint. Coasts along the wall paper for a few seconds, before passing through the void of space from the wall to her, where it comes to rest at her side, she swallows. "Well, I'm not quite tired enough for bed yet," She clears her throat softly and steps away from the door, away from the surely sleeping bundle inside. "And I'm sure there's some popcorn left, and we could find something to watch." She pauses – just briefly, long enough to truly look at the reality of what she's doing, what she's offering and white-hot panic floods the skin of her wrists and throats.

She shoves past it; speaking as smoothly as though she hadn't just experienced the disaster of emotions on the inside.

"You're welcome to stay, if you want."

She watches as he blinks and swallows, and she knows – somewhere deep inside, in the far back of her mind; that he doesn't know that she figured it out, and that this is all just a terribly convenient offer for him.

He doesn't know that she figured out that he'd planned to stay, watching over them – _Under my protection -_ at least until George's car pulled into the driveway and his feet reached the front porch, and then he would go. Sliding silently through the house like a ghost, vanishing without a sight and sliding out the back door, shutting it just as the other one opened, and into the TARDIS, followed by his final departure.

He blinks again, an honest expression forming on his face – he doesn't know, doesn't even begin suspect it – and the dull gentle smile on his lips grows into something a little more vivid and stronger. "I'd be honored, Clara. If you'd have me."

She swallows down the lump in her throat that forms at those words, and gives him a smile, only a little bit bigger than the one he's wearing. "Well, I'll be right down." She tells him, breaking off the second part of her sentence before it can snake out her mouth, because it's obvious; it doesn't need to be spoken. He takes her kind dismissal for what it is, and turns away; heading down the stairs, before slinking off into the kitchen at the last second, no doubt to make more pop corn.

She stays, hovering by Artie's door, until his form is out of view, and then she waits a little longer; listening to the bustling steady footsteps and the clatter of bowl being taken down; she hears the pause in movement, the hesitation, followed by the gentle, dull, comforting hum of the sonic; which brings another soft, amused smile to her lips, even though no one is around to see it.

And then she goes, turning away and heading down the hall; and up the short flight of stairs, to her room, allowing her hand to drift along the railing as she goes.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

It'd been five years.

Five years – well longer, but still – since she had seen George Maitland go on a date.

Five years since she met the Doctor.

Five years since Angie and Artie lost their mother, and he lost his wife.

She wishes she could say the same for the Doctor, but truth be told; she doesn't know how long his gap has been, she knows when the last time he saw Professor Song was, and when they said, shared their final goodbyes was. But she doesn't know how long the gaps between seeing her are. He could drop her off at home, and spend weeks on end in solitude and the company of strangers in other worlds, or he could greet her again with her goodbye still ringing in his ears.

Her hand finds the light switch without so much as a glance, and after a seconds drawl the dull light slowly begins to fill the room with a warm orange glow.

And maybe it's better that way.

Her room is still relatively messy, a few discarded outfits tossed here and there, spewn across the floor and the headboard of her bed, her night ware – the reason she came up here – is laid across the back of her desk chair, which now, with the exception of a few photos laying on top of it and above it, is completely bare; inside and out.

She'd spent the past few days, which were growing into weeks, packing and towing her stuff into the TARDIS, with the help of the Doctor, and the Maitland's, and on one exception, with her father. It was one of the reasons he was staying over so late, hanging around, drawling out the time of his own stay, leaping at the chance to help and stay a while longer, even if that meant staying on the couch and watching a movie with the three of them – along with answering the never ending wave of questions, which still came after five years, from the teenagers.

Another reason being, she likes to think he enjoys the company.

The questions of course, had gotten a lot more complicated and in depth, once they covered what he was and how he was and who. A Time Lord, and Gallifreyan, and the last.

The questions grew to possibilities, borderline appropriate and not so, but thankfully always drifting away or coasting above touchy subjects. Angie and Artie were wise enough to know by now what, under any circumstance, was off the table for questioning. And were kind enough to avoid them, despite their own gnawing curiosity.

One particular memory brought a smile to her lips – the blush that had stained his cheeks with a few of the questions, and his flabbergasted response, before he had all but fled from the room, she'd never heard what the questions were, and her only asking brought on a darker shade of crimson. So she let it slide away but never forgot it.

Her fingers hooked at the bottom of her shirt, and she lifted it above her head – tossing it somewhere to the right, not listening to the dull flap it made as it fell upon the bed – and picked up the old, warn down, far too long dark gray jersey from the back of a chair. It'd belonged to a friend of her dad, up until the time her mother had stolen it from him and claimed it has her own – and then, after that, after a while, it became hers.

She slid off her pants and pulled on a pair of dark purple sweat pants, resting by the chair's legs – an unusual addition, but necessary if she planned on going back downstairs, and sitting with the Doctor for God knows how long.

She stepped away from the chair then, and into the moonlight peeling in from the thin window on the far wall, planned on continuing further – but something stopped her. The feeling and lingering knowledge that she could get use to this, to the knowledge that she could go upstairs, forever how long, and go back down knowing that someone was waiting for her, and always would be. And they wouldn't mind it.

She turned, and continued to the other side of the room, brushing past the clothes, and never stopping, pausing only at the door to swallow against the feeling, which was climbing on the side of her neck, and lift a hand to turn the light switch off, then she opened the door, stepped outside and shut it.

And headed downstairs with the knowledge that someone was waiting for her.


End file.
